Another Word for Murder

by Nero Blanc

  “Tell me what?” Rosco prodded.

  Father Tom considered his answer for a moment longer, then said, “I’ve watched Dan work. He has a real affinity with these men. They get along very well. They have a lot of laughs together. Believe it or not, these guys actually look forward to going to the dentist.”

  “So, what are you saying? Dan Tacete’s a sorcerer? I have a lot of laughs with my dentist, but that doesn’t make his drill a sight for sore eyes.”

  “No. What I’m saying is, he’s got a lot in common with the kind of men who end up here. In an odd way, they seem cut from the same cloth. I’ve spent half my life around men who’ve dropped out. There’s a through-line in most of their stories…. I guess I’m saying that it wouldn’t surprise me if Dan just took off. It’s not something I would have suspected or predicted, but now that it’s happened …”

  “No, no,” Rosco objected, “we don’t know anything’s ‘happened’.”

  “I understand; and I may be wrong. As I said, it’s a little early to start sending up flares. But—.”

  “But it wouldn’t surprise you if Tacete turned up three sheets to the wind in a homeless shelter in Toledo by Monday morning,” Rosco said facetiously.

  Father Tom nodded at the man opening cans. “You see that fellow handling the soup? He’s been here about seven months now. Does he look familiar?”

  Rosco shook his head. “No. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before.”

  “That’s because twenty-two months ago he was a federal judge in Broward County, Florida.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Rosco walked into his office, draped his windbreaker over a wire coat hanger, and then wedged the garment onto the wooden rod in his overly crowded corner closet. The closet was home to a serious collection of thrift-store clothing—items that came in handy when he needed to convince someone he was something other than what he really was: a PI.

  There was a designer three-piece, charcoal-gray suit—that he detested wearing—but nonetheless made him look every inch the high-priced attorney or stock broker. There was a pair of distressed work boots; four pairs of blue jeans in various stages of deterioration; white painter’s pants; a scuffed, black leather motorcycle jacket; a construction hardhat; green hospital scrubs; a tweed sports jacket with leather patches on the elbows; a pair of cowboy boots; as well as a spectrum of sports caps that were designed to persuade folks that he was either a local—and therefore a rabid Red Sox or Pats fan—or that he came from as far away as California and Florida. The Lakers and Marlins were represented; Washington D.C. was covered with a Go Skins! hat. Though, given his Massachusetts accent, these out-of-town ruses were never quite as successful as he hoped.

  After marrying Belle, Rosco had relocated his office from a low-rent neighborhood to a newer building not far from Lawson’s Coffee Shop—which many considered one of the hubs of downtown life. The reasons for Rosco’s move had been threefold. One: his business had improved steadily, and he could now afford a raise in rent; two: Belle had developed a habit of dropping by unannounced every now and then to add some “great find” of hers to his undercover clothing collection, and he didn’t like the idea of her having to search for a parking place in the raunchy section of town he’d originally inhabited; and three: he liked Lawson’s. Beside being a favored haunt of his old NPD pals and allowing him pick up all sorts of useful information, it was also the scene of the Saturday morning “Breakfast Bunch”—a convivial crew that formed the basis of many of the friendships he and his wife shared.

  Maybe it was the fact that the restaurant had seen its last major renovation sometime during the Eisenhower administration, or that its resolutely pink decor couldn’t help but produce a smile, or that the waitresses and kitchen staff treated everyone like family. Whatever the cause, stepping inside the glass-paneled front door was to return to an easier era in American life. In the heart of a big, modern city, Lawson’s was its own small and quirky village.

  A normal Saturday gathering at the eatery consisted of too much food and too many laughs, which meant that everyone involved in the “Bunch” would waddle out the door at nine thirty or ten A.M. with their midsections in cramps. The participants varied from week to week depending on schedules, but this Saturday varied in another way: NPD had leaked a photograph of Dan Tacete to the evening news, and his disappearance was now general knowledge. Naturally, everyone in the Breakfast Bunch had an opinion, even though only one of them had actually met the missing man.

  Martha, the fifty-something-year-old waitress whose hair, makeup, and attitude made her seem as if she’d just stepped out of a 1957 T-Bird ad—blonde beehive and American Beauty-pink lipstick startlingly intact—analyzed the situation with her customary grain of salt. “And you say he owned six cars, Rosco? That spells one thing to me; P-L-A-Y-B-O-Y. Tacete’s found himself a younger chickie and flown the proverbial coop!”

  But Abe Jones, the African American with the movie-star looks, who happened to be NPD’s forensic expert and was no slouch in the playboy category, didn’t buy Martha’s scenario. “No way, Marth. Nobody walks away from all those goodies. Rich people like their S-T-U-F-F, and men like their trinkets. Especially car guys. Sure, he might take a powder on his wife, but there’s no way he leaves a Porsche 911 behind.”

  “There’s a loving comment, gorgeous,” Martha wise-cracked, and Abe responded with an equally droll: “And ‘flying the coop’s’ supposed to be sympathetic, Marth?”

  “You want T.L.C, how’s about a B.L.T. with extra mayo, Dr. J?”

  Al Lever was also there, and his offering was a habitually jaded “Not my department, Missing Persons, but nine times out of ten, it turns out these guys scooted up to Boston for a little hanky-panky. When they creep home, they’ve got their tails between their legs, and a dozen roses clenched in their sorry fists.”

  Sara Crane Briephs, the grand old lady who traced her ancestry back to the first settlers of Massachusetts, and who had become Belle’s surrogate grandmother, offered a more genteel and empathetic version. “Well, I’ve only met Dan Tacete a few times at charity fund raisers, but I can attest that he seems a most upright and wholesome young man. A thorough professional, I would imagine, beside being very pleasant … which leads me, I’m afraid, to fear the worst. I don’t mean to be a pessimist, but I don’t foresee a happy ending to this situation.”

  “What situation would that be, Mrs. B?” Al asked her as he forked up his order of French toast with a double side of bacon—extra crispy, as usual.

  “You’re in charge of our city’s homicide investigations, Albert dear,” was Sara’s smooth response after she’d dabbed daintily at her lips with a still-clean paper napkin. “Perhaps, you should be telling me.”

  Later on, remembering those ominous words, Rosco slumped into his office chair and rubbed his stomach. Once again, he’d overeaten. He released a groan as he scanned his cluttered desk. Dedicating a full day in an effort to help Karen locate her husband had left him behind with his investigation into the Porto Ristorante valet parking scam. On top of that, his answering machine was blinking rapidly. He tapped the play button, and an automated voice announced, “Friday, one twenty-seven P.M.” This was immediately followed by a human, but also staccato, “Rosco, it’s Elaine Vogel. I was hoping to catch you in. I’d like to work with you on the Snyder case, but if I need to get someone else, let me know ASAP.” She then left a string of numbers for work, home, and cell. She was a person who left nothing to chance.

  Rosco released a second groan, although this one was full of self-criticism. He’d promised to call Elaine on Friday, but with the Tacete mess it had completely slipped his mind. He punched in her first contact number and reached a voice mailbox. “Elaine, it’s Rosco Polycrates. Sorry about yesterday. Listen, I know you’re not making a dime on this one, so let’s just say I’ll help you out where I can. I’m really too busy to take on something else right now … but I’ve been in and out of a lot of body shops lately working on another si
tuation. If anything looks fishy or seems like it might have bearing on the Snyder case, I’ll get back to you, but if you need a full-timer I’ll understand.”

  He left identical messages at Elaine Vogel’s other mailboxes then replaced the phone in the cradle. It rang within seconds.

  “Polycrates Agency.”

  A grave voice responded with, “Yeah, this is Phil Gronski. You left me a message earlier in the week.”

  Rosco pushed through some papers on his desk until he found the one he wanted. “Yes. Right. Mr. Gronski. I understand you had your BMW stolen in front of Porto Ristorante on the evening of March fifteenth.”

  “Yeah, right, a Z-8.”

  “I’ve been hired by Northern Mutual to look into—”

  “I’m not insured by Northern. My company’s G.I.A.”

  “Yes sir, I know that. There are a number of companies handling the claims. I’m trying to talk with everyone who had a vehicle stolen regardless of their insurer. We’re looking for any thread, anything that can help us piece together who the perpetrator might be. I was wondering if you—”

  Again Gronski interrupted Rosco. “It’s sleazeballs like you who make life miserable for the rest of us.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “All I want is my damn money. I could care less if you catch the jerks who lifted my Z-8.”

  “Northern Mutual’s paid off their claims, Mr. Gronski. What they’re looking for is criminal prosecution and the opportunity to reclaim some of their losses if they can.”

  “Yeah, well, G.I.A. hasn’t paid off jack,” Gronski growled into the phone. “And you know why? Because they’re waiting for you people to get your act together. All I get from my agent is, ‘That case is still pending criminal investigation.’”

  Rosco shook his head. G.I.A. Insurance was one of the worst companies in America, notorious for stringing customers along for months, even years, before settling claims, in the hopes that eventually clients would give up or just fade away.

  “Well, sir, I can’t answer for G.I.A., since I’ve been hired by Northern, but if that’s their position, perhaps it would be in your best interest to answer a few questions? Get the ball rolling?”

  “Yeah? Says you. Why don’t you just go to hell.”

  Instinctively, Rosco pulled the receiver away from his ear, knowing full well that Gronski’s next move would be to smash the phone down into its cradle. And like clockwork, that’s exactly what he did.

  Rosco leaned forward and drew a narrow line through Phil Gronski’s name, moved his pen down to the next name on his list, and reached for the telephone. Once again it rang before he had the opportunity to lift the receiver, and he answered with his normal “Polycrates Agency.”

  “Rosco, thank goodness you’re there,” Karen sobbed into the phone. “Dan didn’t disappear. Someone has him. Someone’s kidnapped him! They just called!”

  “SUGAR AND SPICE”

  Across

  1. Part of S.P.C.A.

  4. Nap spot

  7. Virginia’s specialty

  10. Tam

  13. Cable network; abbr.

  14. Theater worker; abbr.

  15. Yalie

  16. Fuss

  17. Sea eagle

  18. Map abbr.

  19. Kitty Fisher, e.g.

  21. Nursery rhyme

  24. Remove, in trips

  25. Pepper’s pal

  29. Nab

  30. A Tucker

  32. Hare’s adjective

  33. British Air, once

  35. Tempe campus; abbr.

  37. Airport info

  38. “The Grasshopper & the——”

  41. Vol/time fig.

  42. Mythical bird

  43. Cobra kin

  44. Ghostly sound

  45. British honor; abbr.

  46. Gals’ dates

  48. Puss in——

  50. Fish eggs

  52. With 20-Down, Tibetan terrier

  55. Against

  56. Wood preservative

  59. Nursery rhyme

  63. Marvelettes hit

  66. Cartoonist Browne

  67. Fall back

  68. “The Mind Benders” actress

  69. Pitcher’s stat.

  70. “… little girls——made of.”

  71. WNW counterpart

  72. Mr. Beatty

  73. Steal

  74. Buddhist temple

  75. Morning shakes

  Down

  1. Book support

  2. Hugh, Pat, or Edmond

  3. Nicaragua fighter

  4. Nursery rhyme

  5. Bone; comb. form

  6. A man in a tub

  7. Beatles hit

  8. Lotion ingredient

  9. “Three Blind——”

  10. 48-Across, e.g.

  11. Orange or lemon add-on

  12. ——favor

  20. See 52-Across

  22. Newspaper, informally

  23. Siouan

  26. Like the Owl & the Pussy Cat

  27. “——Hang On!”, 4 Seasons hit

  28. Snare

  31. Nursery rhyme

  32. Nursery rhyme

  34. Edwards or Andrews; abbr.

  36. Old French coin

  38. “Dancing Queen” group

  39. Twelve

  40. Blow one’s horn

  47. Tie back

  49. “Once upon a——”

  51. Wood sorrel

  53. Like Polly Flinders

  54. “Finally!”

  57. City in Madagascar

  58. Rims

  60. “The cow jumped——the moon”

  61. Roman fiddler

  62. Lackluster

  63. Good times

  64. Mine find

  65. Little——Riding Hood

  To download a PDF of this puzzle, please visit openroadmedia.com/nero-blanc-crosswords

  CHAPTER 11

  Unaware of Karen’s calamitous news, Belle pulled into the small driveway in front of her house on Captain’s Walk. After leaving Rosco to catch up on work following their weekly rendezvous with the Breakfast Bunch, she’d decided to give the dogs a brief run in the cliff-side park before settling down to an afternoon of crossword editing. The morning was simply too pleasant to resist; and she’d found the surprisingly visitor-free park a welcome relief after the emotional roller coaster of the previous forty-eight hours—as well the equally impassioned or trenchant comments Dan Tacete’s disappearance had elicited from the crowd at Lawson’s.

  Reflecting on Sara’s kindly concern, on Martha’s joking skepticism, on Abe Jones and Al Lever’s seen-it-all world-weariness, Belle realized how nice it was to toss a Frisbee or a stick while gazing at the salt waves of the bay and feeling the heat of the sun beating through the cooler ocean air. It felt good to clear her brain.

  Watching Gabby and Kit bounding along, tearing after squirrels and each other, Belle considered how much humans could learn from studying the behavior of their canine friends. Joy was immediate; worry and fear became issues only when the need arose. Dogs didn’t have sleepless nights fretting over mortgages or leaking roofs or roving spouses; they didn’t torture themselves over past mistakes or unkindnesses or those many sins of omission. They existed to give love, receive love—and eat. Which wasn’t a bad notion as long as someone else was paying the bills.

  It was in this reflective frame of mind that Belle—along with Kit and Gabby—had finally returned home. As the three climbed the stairs to the porch, Belle noticed that the front door was slightly ajar and that there was an envelope wedged in the crack. Pulling it out, she noted that her name and street number were handwritten, that the script appeared feminine in shape, and that there was no return address.

  Belle walked inside as she opened the flap and extracted a crossword with a Post-it providing the constructor’s name, Randy E. Isaacs, and email address. “Oh …,” she murmured, scanning the puzzle, “‘Sugar and Spice.’ This looks l
ike another nursery rhyme theme…. ” Her brow creased in thought as she walked into her office and retrieved the “Baby Steps” puzzle Artie had delivered on Wednesday morning. Either these are constructed by the same person using different names for authorship, Belle decided, or there’s some weird kind of zietgeist going on.

  She spread the crossword on her desk, muttering aloud as she scanned the solutions and clues. “4-Down: CURLY LOCKS … 21-Across is LITTLE BO BEEP … MARGERY DAW is the answer to 31-Down … We’ve got Kitty Fisher’s nemesis at 32-Down, and Like Polly Flinders at 53-Down…. Good … good … Those references work well with the ‘What are little girls made of?’ theme.” Then she sighed as she realized she couldn’t put two puzzles into the same collection that were so similar in message and intent.

  She set the crosswords side by side, but as she scrutinized them, Rosco burst in through the front door. “I didn’t want to phone you with the news,” she heard him call out as he hurried through the living room. She turned toward her office door. Only rarely did her husband come home without announcing himself with a cheery “Hiya Belle!” Something was wrong.

  “You found Dan,” she said. Her tone was level, but fearful. “He was in an accident, after all—”

  “No.” Rosco shook his head. “He’s been kidnapped. Karen called me at the office. I came home to get you. I thought you’d want go over there with me. The kidnappers contacted her a half an hour ago.”

  Belle stared at her husband as she tried to process this news. “What …? How …?”

  “That’s all I know. She said she needed to speak with me in person. We’ll bring the dogs and the picnic hamper as if we’re were all going out together—in case the house is being watched. Whoever got him may not know I’m a PI; I want to make it look like a social call.” He hurried down to the basement and returned a moment later carrying the wicker basket from which he removed the thermos, replacing it with a box containing electronics equipment. Then he crossed to the hall closet, reached behind an overcoat, and retrieved his .32-caliber automatic. This he nestled in among the floral-patterned plastic plates and glasses.

  “Oh, Rosco,” Belle half-whispered as she watched him.